


The Truest Thing You Know

by afterfuture



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Sex, F/M, Fluff, Minor Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, POV Jaime Lannister, POV Sansa, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Past Underage, Queen Sansa, Ramsay is his own warning, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-18 15:05:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13684131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterfuture/pseuds/afterfuture
Summary: After the death of his children, Jaime has lost all sense of purpose and rides North to honor his commitment to Catelyn Stark.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows show canon to a degree, but plays fast and loose with some events and timelines in a retelling of seasons 6-7, along with some imaginings of what might happen after. In this story, Sansa was forced to marry Jaime after he returned from captivity, and they were together eight months before she escaped King's Landing with Petyr Baelish and went to the Vale. Flashbacks to their marriage are in italics. 
> 
> As she endures Ramsay's abuse and escapes, Jaime returns from Riverrun to find Cersei has blown up the Sept of Baelor and Tommen has killed himself. The death of their third child destroys what little remained of their relationship, and Jaime leaves King's Landing to find Sansa in the North. He arrives at Castle Black just days after Sansa reunites with Jon. 
> 
> Following show ages, Sansa is 18 and Jaime is 41 at the start (she would have been 15-16 and he 38-39 when they were first married).
> 
> Playlist: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLJOYilZUbh5Ub35QVBhmk_IbvcYG1Ui4a

JAIME

He'd questioned himself a thousand times in the thousand or more leagues since King's Landing, but it wasn't until he got to the gates of Castle Black that Jaime Lannister seriously feel the urge to turn and run.

 

He'd ridden through Winter Town first, looking for any sign of Sansa and Brienne, leaving his force encamped far from the walls of Winterfell, then taken the long path through the plains and over the moors to the Wall when he'd heard the rumors that Ramsay sought her to the north. So far no one had cared enough to engage him; either his soldiers escaped their notice or they had more important duties to worry about, with winter on its way and the land wracked from civil war. Only the wildlings settled south of the Wall even took notice, and he was careful to encamp most of his troops far from the nearest wildling settlement before riding to the gates of Castle Black with only Addam Marbrand.

 

"Riders approaching! Open the gates!"

 

He heard the calls from high on the ramparts before the gates swung open and the two rode in, eyeing the arrows trained on them warily. His gaze was caught by a ripple of flame, and he looked up and across the courtyard to where Sansa Stark emerged from behind a doorway, her brother at her side. She looked different than the last time he'd seen her, more mature. Colder somehow, and in ways, he guessed, that had nothing to do with the snow. He cursed his traitorous thoughts, bracing himself on his golden hand as he hopped down from his horse. Her gaze never left his, her eyes narrow.

 

"Kingslayer," Snow said by way of greeting, hand on the pommel of his sword. "What are you doing here?"

 

Sansa put her hand briefly on Jon's arm and they shared an unreadable glance. "Ser Jaime," she said evenly, her gaze turning back to his. "You and your man should come inside, get warm."

 

A tense silence enveloped the group as he and Addam followed the pair up the stairs and into the Great Hall. He was relieved to see Brienne and Pod inside, along with a collection of people he didn't know. He caught Brienne's eye, her quick nod of acknowledgement, and a soft smile tugged briefly at his lips. He accepted the cup of ale Sansa poured for him and watched as she passed one to Addam. The room was filled with an expectant silence; the stares of Snow and his men hard, demanding. Sansa's gaze was softer, but no less perplexed.

 

"You should know Tommen is dead and my sister rules in King's Landing," Jaime said by way of beginning; the flash of empathy in Sansa's eyes did not escape his notice. He turned to face her fully. "Much else has happened. I have nothing to say but this: Lady Sansa, I made a vow to your mother to see you safe, and I have come to honor that vow."

 

He heard the audible gasps of Snow's men as he knelt before Sansa, drawing his sword. Some of them were Westermen his father sent to the Wall; he knew their families, men he fought beside against the Starks. "My sword is yours. My life is yours," he began, departing from the usual words of a fealty vow to impress upon them all the solemnity behind it.

 

He could tell he had rattled her by the way she said his name, leaving off the simple courtesy of a 'Ser.' He could tell by the blush that overtook her that she recognized the devotion behind his actions, though she didn't comprehend it. "Jaime, I know how you feel about vows - you don't have to do this," she interrupted him, her voice low, as if they were the only two in the room. "I am safe. I am fine. I have Jon and Brienne. You're no longer bound by that vow." He recalled the discussion they'd had before their wedding, when he'd revealed his true feelings about oaths to her.

 

_"You're angry about being released from the Kingsguard." It's not a question. "I'm sorry - sorry that I'm the reason for that."_

 

_Jaime held up a hand to stop her apology in its tracks. "No. It's a relief, actually." In answer to her gaze, he continued, voice sardonic, "So many vows. They make you swear and swear. Defend the king, obey the king, obey your father, protect the innocent, defend the weak. But what if your father despises the king? What if the king massacres the innocent? It's too much. No matter what you do you're forsaking one vow or another." He can't keep the bitterness out of his voice, but what he says next softens it, at least. "The oath I made to your mother - that's the only one that matters now."_

 

Her hands were firm, hard, unyielding as she grasped his shoulders. "You can't, Jaime. You can't give up your claim to the West." A sharp intake of her breath. "Please. I'd accept it gladly, but you'd serve me better by my side, as my ally."

 

He nodded once, reluctant, standing and sheathing his sword in a smooth motion, his golden hand glimmering in the firelight. "As you say," he yielded, and then turned to finally face Snow. "I bring with me a force of one thousand. It's not much, but they're loyal to me, not my sister."

 

"If you think this atones for all you've done to destroy our family - " Snow snapped harshly, his hand balling into a fist. 

 

Jaime shook his head. "I know it doesn't. I can never atone for all I've done, my family has done - " He thought of things even Sansa did not know, and swallowed hard. "I merely - I intend to do the honorable thing, the right thing, this time." He'd served so many unworthy figures, lost all sense of purpose in losing his children. Serving Sansa Stark was the only right thing left to him.

 

Honor, at least, the bastard seemed to understand. Snow turned to Sansa and Jaime realized he'd interrupted them in the midst of a heated discussion. Her face was stone again.

 

"If we don't take back the north, we'll never be safe," she charged. "Not us, not the wildlings, not the Watch. Ramsay doesn't care. He'll come for us all."

 

Snow scrubbed a hand over his face. "We have an enemy more powerful to worry about."

 

"Jon - "

 

"I'm tired of arguing this with you, Sansa. Lannister, go see to your men - they may encamp close to the walls, apart from the wildlings. We'll talk again at supper." Jon moved for the exit and everyone scattered.

 

Sansa put her hand on Jon's arm, her Tully blue eyes dark and glittering. "I'm going to take Winterfell back. I want you to help me, but I'll do it myself if I have to." It wasn't a threat, but a promise, and hearing the steel behind the words made Jaime realize how much Sansa had changed from the girlchild he remembered.

 

Brienne came over to Jaime as Snow and his men stalked out. "It's good to see you again," she said quietly. "Good to see you here."

 

The ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. "We'll talk soon."

 

She nodded, leading Podrick out to the courtyard, her hand on her sword.

 

Ever the lady, Sansa introduced herself to Addam, asking to ride with them to see to Jaime's men. They made their way to the stables together, Sansa affectionately nuzzling a silvery mare. Jaime noticed a wince as Sansa gingerly mounted her horse, and he narrowed his eyes at her in concern, but she held up a hand as he tried to speak.

 

"I'm fine. Tokens of Ramsay's...affection," she admitted wryly. "And Theon and I jumped from the ramparts to escape, that was no easy thing. I'm still healing. But I'll be fine."

 

He raised an eyebrow. "Greyjoy was with you?"

 

She took the reins in one hand, her other hand tangling gently in her mare's mane as Jaime mounted Dawn, his roan. "Ramsay had him as a prisoner when I...returned to Winterfell. He's gone back to the Iron Islands." 

 

It was quiet for awhile as they ride out the gates of Castle Black, and almost immediately Jaime veered off the road onto a well-traveled path. "It's a ways to our camp," he said, unable to keep the worry from his voice. "I plan to have the men move closer, now that we don't have to worry about the wildlings."

 

"It's fine," she repeated. "I'm no stranger to long rides now."

 

He heard the unspoken 'or pain' and it made his heart hurt.

 

Addam fell back, giving them both privacy to talk, and he found himself wanting the musical sound of her voice in his ears after being apart for so long. A harsh chuckle escaped his throat as it dawned on him that he'd  _missed_ her.

 

She glanced at him, curiosity coloring her features.

 

He shook his head. "It's just - I never imagined I'd see you again," he confessed. "For such a long time I was content to let Brienne do my job for me, pretend it didn't matter, pretend there were more important things. It's been a long two years."

 

"That it has," she agreed, and they settled into an amiable, if somewhat awkward, silence.

 

After some time, seeking to hear the music of her voice, he offered, "Tell me the truest thing you know?" He wanted to smile as he recalled the first time he'd asked her that.

 

_The words were out of his mouth before he could censor himself. It was a risky thing to ask; the girl didn't trust him, he knew, and she had no reason to. To push her might break this fragile intimacy that had grown out of them seeking comfort in one another from their nightmares._

 

_"What?" She lifted her head from his shoulder and met his gaze, her own perplexed._

 

_"Tell me something true. Or the truest thing you're willing to say. I know I don't exactly inspire trust but - Sansa - you don't have to repeat the same empty courtesies to me." He sought to make her understand. "I'm not Joffrey. I'm not my sister."_

 

_She took a deep breath and nodded, her head falling again to nuzzle in against his shoulder as his arms encircled her quite of their own instinct. Her voice faltered, but underneath it was clear and true. "The truest thing I know...my father was innocent." She bit her lip, clearly uncomfortable voicing her real thoughts after having repeated the same lies over and over for the past year. "I don't know everything that happened - the how or why - but I know that."_

 

_He remembered the look on Ned Stark's face as he'd put his dagger through Stark's man's brain and he swallowed hard. He threaded his fingers into her sunset hair. "Joffrey should never have given the order. I'm sorry for the part I played in all that - "_

 

_She placed a palm flat against the plane of his chest, over his heart. "Don't." Her voice was low, unreadable. "I mean, I know you did things - things that hurt my family. But you didn't give the order to kill my father, or my mother, or Robb. And you're - you can never change the past, but you're not the same person you once were."_

 

_"That's exceptionally kind." Truthfully he was floored at her sense of mercy, of justice; he'd once told Brienne that Sansa Stark was his last chance for honor, and while this wasn't how he'd ever wanted his life to turn out, he wondered if this marriage was something of a redemption. And then he wanted to laugh; Jaime fucking Lannister seeking after redemption was the funniest joke he'd ever heard. He'd never sought absolution in his life, and the fact that he even contemplated it now - well, he must have lost more than just his hand on the trip back from the Riverlands._

 

_"You think I'm naive." She'd misread his silence, he thought, but she also wasn't wrong; she smiled wryly. "Trust me, I saw enough of the ways of the world while you were gone from King's Landing. I'm not the sheltered child I was when first we met."_

 

_It was a fair statement, and he gave a small nod of acknowledgement, letting silence fill the space as he cradled her against him, grateful to feel her relax under his touch._

 

_"Your turn," she said after awhile._

 

_"Hmm?" The purpose of this exercise had been to comfort her after her nightmare, to build the nascent trust between them, but he was lulled himself, languor unfurling in his limbs._

 

_She lifted her head again, her fingertips nudging his chin so that he met her gaze. "What's the truest thing you know?"_

 

A shadow of nostalgia passed over her face for a moment, before she said, "I should have stayed in King's Landing with you. I've made so many choices I regret - "

 

He interrupted her. "I should have taken you from there myself. You made the best choices you could at the time, Sansa. Don't blame yourself." He would spend the rest of his life atoning for his decision to stay in King's Landing, to let Sansa run away with Baelish, to let his divided loyalties and his twisted relationship with Cersei get in the way of what he knew to be right.

 

She laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "I was a stupid, naive child." The bitterness in her voice twisted something deep inside him.

 

"You were just a child, and you were put through things no child should ever have to endure," he murmured quietly, and noted the way she studied him with her stony gaze, but she let the matter drop, and silence enveloped them until they reached the camp.

 

When they got there, she threw herself into the logistics of moving soldiers and supplies, much to his surprise. She reminded him of - well - himself, the way she made a point of meeting his officers individually, remembering their names, asking about their families. She helped with organizing their food and clothing supplies, and what shocked him more was that she was _good_ at it.

 

He didn't fail to notice the way his men were charmed by her.

 

It took them several hours to settle his men closer to the protective walls of the fortress built into the Wall, less than a league from the wildling camp - he had to soothe more than a few nerves about that. They made it back to the castle just as twilight descended upon the cold landscape, everything gray and silver and white with snow.

 

Dinner was a somber affair. Edd, the apparent Lord Commander, apologized for the quality, but Jaime waved a hand dismissively; after the day he'd had, he'd take any hot food he could get. He was still trying to parse out the politics at the castle, figure out why Snow had relinquished command, and he was having a ridiculous amount of fun watching a tall, bearded wildling make eyes at a sulking Brienne.

 

One of Snow's men burst in halfway through their quiet meal with a scroll, and handed it to him, with a quick, "A letter for you, Lord Commander - "

 

"I'm not Lord Commander anymore," Snow said, as if by rote, but he took the scroll anyway and broke the red seal, unfurling it. Something in his demeanor alerted them all to the importance of its contents; Snow met Sansa's gaze sharply as Jaime looked on with concern.

 

"To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow," he said out loud in an unnaturally even tone that left no curiosity about the identity of the sender. "You allowed thousands of wildlings past the wall. You have betrayed your own kind and you have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard. Come and see."

 

Sansa could have been made of stone, of ice, for all she moved next to him. She barely breathed, her gaze locked on the letter in Snow's hands. Jaime noted her white-knuckled grip beneath the table, wishing he could take one of her hands in his own, but such a familiar gesture wasn't appropriate, not anymore.

 

"Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon - " Snow's voice trailed off and he shared a glance with Sansa, swallowing hard before continuing. "His direwolf's skin is on my floor. Come and see."

 

Jaime had a feeling he knew what was coming, wished he could protect her from it.

 

"I want my bride back. Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your wildling lovers. Keep her from me, and I will ride North and slaughter every wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living - " Snow abruptly cut off as Tormund, the wildling leader, emitted a low growl. "It's just more of the same."

 

Sansa read something behind his words and snatched the scroll from Snow's hands, her voice like iron. She could have been talking about the weather, for all the emotion in it. "You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see."

 

She let the letter furl with a snap of her wrist. "It's signed 'Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.' He's killed his father. And now he has Rickon."

 

"We don't know that - " Snow interjected, but Sansa cut him off.

 

"Yes. We do."

 

Tormund already seemed sold on the idea of a battle. "How many men does he have in his army?"

 

"I heard him say five thousand once, when he was talking about Stannis's attack," Sansa responded. 

 

"How many do you have?" Snow asked the wildling.

 

"That can fight?" Tormund frowned. "Two thousand. The rest are children and old people."

 

"My men make three," Jaime interjected, met with an unreadable glance from Snow. "I came up here to - " he met Sansa's gaze, " - to _ally_ with you. I mean to help you take back the North, if you'll have me."

 

"Thank you, Ser Jaime," Sansa said quietly before turning to her brother. "You're the son of the last true Warden of the North. Northern families are loyal. They'll fight for you if you ask."

 

Snow started to shake his head and Jaime wanted to curse him for a coward, but Sansa reached for her brother's hand, urgency coloring her voice. "A monster has taken our home and our brother, Jon. We have to go back to Winterfell and save them both."

 

Snow finally nodded, his gaze rueful as he met Sansa's eyes. "Give me a day to meet with the wildling clans. Then we ride out."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She hated that her experiences had beaten into her a kind of bitter, stony pragmatism, a calculating mind where once there had been nothing but guileless naivete and belief that all would work out for the best. But pragmatism was one reason she had survived when so many others had not; pragmatism and luck, and she refused to hedge her bets on the latter.

SANSA

 

Sansa nearly ran into Jaime as she went to retire to her rooms for the evening; this was how she discovered they were bedded down in rooms opposite one another. "I'm sorry, I - " she started, bracing herself with one hand against his chest as she took a step back, tilting her head up slightly to meet his emerald gaze.

 

"It's quite alright, Lady Sansa, I don't think these barracks were built for ease of movement," he responded with an amused quirk of his lips. "Tell me, would you walk with me for a few moments? I was headed up to the ramparts just now."

 

She clenched her hands in her skirt for a brief moment. She was still reeling from the events of the day, from what she'd done to get both Jaime and Jon to agree with her plans, and she had an uneasy feeling she was about to be called on it. Only her memories of regard for him led her to give a slight nod, before ducking in to let Brienne know she'd be returning to their room shortly and didn't need an escort.

 

Jaime wisely didn't offer her his arm; she would have felt quite rude refusing such a gesture, but rumors were already circulating about his attempt to pledge fealty to her, on top of the whispers of her still being a Lannister or Bolton whore, depending on who was doing the whispering. She hated that her experiences had beaten into her a kind of bitter, stony pragmatism, a calculating mind where once there had been nothing but guileless naivete and belief that all would work out for the best. But pragmatism was one reason she had survived when so many others had not; pragmatism and luck, and she refused to hedge her bets on the latter.

 

The cool caress of a snowflake on her cheek broke her from her reverie, and she looked up for a long moment at the cold, gray sky, and leaned against the wooden railing before glancing out over it. From up here she could see the Kingsroad stretching south from the Wall, the surrounding plains covered in snow. Tracks through the ice led to the twin camps scarring the otherwise pristine landscape, mere specks in the distance from their vantage point.

 

"Sansa." The sound of her name on his lips was so many things: a prayer, a plea, a warning, an admonition. There were nights in the Vale when all she wanted was to hear those syllables in his honey and smoke Western accent, feel his arms encircling her, soothing her from her dreams as he'd once done.

 

She closed her eyes briefly against the hollow ache beating a steady tattoo against her ribcage, retreating into the armor of her courtesies to put some distance between them. "Ser Jaime," she said with a nod of acknowledgement.

 

His lips twisted wryly, as if he could read her actions and words like a book; but oh, how he could. 

 

"That was a calculated move," he ventured in a voice devoid of any sort of judgment, but still guarded.

 

She could tell he was trying to talk her into incriminating herself with his lack of specificity; she merely raised an eyebrow. "Of which move do you speak?" she asked.

 

He threw his blond head back in a brief burst of laughter, somewhat sardonic but with real warmth underneath. "You've learned to play the game much better since last we met, Lady Stark."

 

"You say that like I had a choice," Sansa returned, but without the characteristic bitterness she often felt when thinking about those changes within herself.

 

"No. Of course you didn't, litt - " he stopped, cutting himself off. "Lady Stark."

 

She bit down on her bottom lip. How she longed to hear that pet name fall from his lips once more. "Shh, little one," he used to say, calming her when she'd wake from nightmares. His hand carding through her hair was the only thing that had ever brought her peace when she was trapped in King's Landing; his arms were the only place she'd ever felt safe since she was a girl, those brief months they had been married. But her nightmares had more shape and weight to them now, and she wasn't so easily pulled back. Now, she thought herself beyond the reach of even his kindness. And if any of them knew that she'd once cared so deeply for the man she was forced to wed, they'd think her a traitor for certain. She tightened her grip on the railing, the rough texture of the wood and the cold air bringing her back to herself.

 

"I didn't mean for you - I don't want you to feel like I'm using you," she said softly, wanting to give him something, anything of herself, what little she could bear to give. "I just - as much as I'd love to accept that oath from you, I can't ask you to give up your claim to the West."

 

"You mean the claim I've never wanted and have turned down at every opportunity?" Jaime countered in harsh words, but with little real heat behind them. "You know I have as much use for my _claim_ as you have for a Valyrian steel sword. What you mean is that _you_ have use for my claim."

 

"You're not going to let me get out of this," she muttered, biting off a curse. That got at least a raised eyebrow out of him. "Alright, I need your men, Jaime. If we survive this battle, we go to war against the dead, and if any of us have a chance of survival, the largest army in the realms better not be commanded by _Cersei_." She ran a hand through her loose, tousled hair in frustration. "Do you think it gives me _any_ pleasure to use people this way?"

 

"Seven Hells, Sans," he swore, not even trying to maintain the boundaries of propriety she'd so carefully drawn around them. "Alright. No. I know it doesn't. I know you're nothing like them - I just - "

 

"I know," she responded ruefully, in a tone colored by self-loathing, remembering as she had earlier in the day all those who had used Jaime in ways not unlike how she did now. "I want you to know that I hate having to ask this of you. That - that I would do anything in my power to change it."

 

He nodded, and they were quiet for several long moments, her gaze returning to the landscape even as she felt the warmth of his against her skin. She felt more than saw his grip tighten on the railing next to her own, and sensed he was steeling himself to ask his other question, the one she truly didn't want to answer.

 

"And Snow? What will he do when he finds out - "

 

" - that Rickon is - is as good as dead?" Her voice broke on the syllables and she swallowed down the tears that had been threatening ever since Ramsay's letter had revealed her little brother's whereabouts. If she started crying, she was very much afraid she'd never stop. "I honestly don't know. I don't even know how to tell him, how to warn him." She looked down, flushed with shame. "I felt like the worst sort of person, using it to get Jon to agree - but you know as well as I do - there's no way Ramsay will ever let Rickon survive, even if we win. He'll use him as bait, and that's if he's even let him live this long."

 

Unshed tears shimmered behind her eyes as Jaime lifted her chin with a gloved, curved finger, and she met his gaze with reluctance, afraid of what she would find there. She saw only sadness and warmth. "Sansa, the fault lies with Bolton. Not with you. Never with you."

 

"But I - I _manipulated_  Jon," she countered bitterly. "And I'd apologize, but the truth is, I'd do it all over again." Gods, but she wanted to weep. She tilted her head to escape the scrutiny and tenderness of Jaime's gaze.

 

"And he loves you, and if it comes to that, he'll forgive you for it," Jaime said quietly.

 

Sansa shook her head with a resigned sigh. "Not everyone is as forgiving as you are, Lannister." Deep down, though, she hoped he was right; his reassurances lessened the weight on her heart just enough that she could breathe through the sobs threatening to overtake her, just enough that she could appeal to levity to get them out of the emotional mess this conversation had dragged them into.

 

"Yeah, I should teach classes," he japed, nudging her arm very lightly with his golden hand, drawing a small smile. They were amiably silent for several long moments before he asked, his tone serious once more, "How are you sleeping these days?"

 

She frowned at him. "Saving all the easy questions for tonight, I see," she responded teasingly, but there was a darker edge to her tone. "Worse than before," she finally admitted. "Having Brienne around helps, so I don't wake the men with my noise." She laid a gentle hand on his arm. "And you?"

 

He shrugged. "Much as before. I've - " He stopped himself, not wanting to cross the invisible, shifting boundaries that existed between them.

 

"I've missed you, too," she admitted, reading his thoughts instinctively. "I know it's improper, that we have to keep distance between us now, but you deserve to know that. You helped me so much, before, and I have missed you. I'm grateful you're here." She studiously avoided his eyes, embarrassed by what she saw as her own weakness, this need for companionship, for comfort.

 

"The feeling is very mutual," he responded softly, and they were both quiet for a long moment before he nodded to himself, releasing his grip on the railing. "Shall we?"

 

She allowed him to escort her back to her room and as he turned to enter his own, she murmured, "Good night, Ser Jaime."

 

"Good night, Lady Sansa."

 

Brienne was perched on the edge of her bed, still fully clothed, even with her armor. She looked up, standing as Sansa entered, even though Sansa held up a hand to motion for her to stay seated. 

 

"This came for you, my lady - a messenger from Mole's Town."

 

Sansa examined the furled parchment, sitting down on the edge of her own bed, opposite her sworn shield. "Dark wings, dark words," people were given to say; it had been the day for it, that much was certain. She ran her thumb over the familiar mockingbird sigil pressed into the wax seal. Would she ever be free of Petyr Baelish and his machinations?

 

With a tired sigh, she broke the seal using her thumbnail, unfurling the tiny scroll and quickly taking in the words there. 

 

He wanted to meet. She could do without ever seeing him again, but it was his second sentence - the promise of an army - that made her reconsider. She looked up at Brienne. "If I scribe a response, can you get it back to him tonight?"

 

At the other woman's nod, Sansa reached over to her bedside table, pulling out a fresh scrap of parchment and dipping a quill in her inkwell. She wrote quickly, but her neat script showed nothing of her haste; she wrote only, "I will come to you at dawn," and blew gently on the parchment to dry the ink before rolling it up. She had lost everything when she ran from Ramsay; her own signet, the one that had belonged to her lord father, was at Winterfell, and so she did not bother with sealing the parchment with wax, but merely tied one of her hair ribbons around it. The sky blue hue of it struck her as somehow discordant, oddly cheerful given the circumstances.

 

She handed it to Brienne, meeting the other woman's gaze. "I know you don't like it," Sansa said ruefully, "but we will go at dawn. Just to hear what he has to say."

 

Brienne nodded, resting a hand briefly on Sansa's shoulder. Sansa covered it with one of her own, smiling softly up at the taller woman. Then, just as quickly, she was gone, ducking out of the room and striding down the hallway to carry out Sansa's orders.

 

Sansa's dreams that night were tinged with warmth, the color of a good red wine, and she woke only once, breathless and sad.

 

\- - -

 

He was still the same snake she remembered. She stood across the room from him, near the doorway, Brienne at her usual two paces behind.

 

"Sansa. Lady Brienne," Petyr began. "When I heard you'd escaped Winterfell, I feared the worst. You have no idea how happy I am to see you unharmed."

 

Sansa felt like she'd been slapped. "Unharmed?" She was reminded that since her scars were either hidden by her clothing or inside her head, the people around her would always underestimate the hell she'd suffered at Ramsay's hands. Sometimes the lack of validation she experienced made her wonder if it had all been a dream, but she had merely to shift her stance and a twinge of pain would remind her of her injuries, or run her hand across the ruined skin of her torso. "What are you doing here?" she asked flatly, not caring how rude she sounded, not caring if she remembered her courtesies.

 

"I rode North with the knights of the Vale to come to your aid. They're encamped at Moat Cailin as we speak."

 

Sansa could sense the tension in Brienne's frame even a pace away; the lady knight kept her hand on her sword's pommel.

 

"To come to my aid?" Sansa asked, incredulous, and then followed it with the only question she really wanted an answer to. "Did you know about Ramsay? If you didn't know, you're an idiot; if you did know, you're my enemy."

 

As Petyr stayed silent, Sansa advanced on him. "Would you like to hear about our wedding night? He never hurt my face. He needed my face, the face of Ned Stark's daughter. But the rest of me; he did what he liked with the rest of me, as long as I could still give him an heir." She took a breath, hating the pity she saw in Petyr's beady eyes, hating that he had utterly no concept of the pain she had been through, wanting to impress some of that pain upon him. "What do you think he did?"

 

"I can't begin to contemplate - " Petyr demurred.

 

"What do you think he did to me?" She hated the way her voice broke on the last word, hated herself for still being weak, for feeling keenly the betrayal of the person who'd been her only ally when she left King's Landing, for feeling anything. They shared a long gaze, her anger against his pity, his impassivity.

 

"Lady Sansa asked you a question," Brienne said, taking a step forward herself as she broke the brief silence.

 

"He beat you," Petyr finally spoke aloud.

 

"Yes, he enjoyed that - what else do you think he did?" Her tone was bitter.

 

"Sansa, I don't - "

 

"What else?" she demanded. 

 

Petyr took a tentative step forward. "Did he cut you?"

 

"Maybe you did know about Ramsay all along," Sansa countered, surprised she had any room left for the sense of betrayal taking up root in her heart.

 

"I didn't know - " Petyr pleaded, but she cut him off again.

 

"I thought you knew everyone's secrets." She felt again much like the naive girl who once trusted him.

 

"I made a mistake," he entreated, lifting his hands in a gesture of surrender. "A horrible mistake; I underestimated a stranger."

 

"The other things he did," Sansa said quietly, "ladies aren't supposed to talk about those things, but I imagine brothel keepers talk about them all the time." She closed her eyes briefly. "I can still feel it." Her voice was hard, each word carefully punctuated. "I don't mean in my tender heart it still pains me so; I can still feel it, standing here in my body, right now."

 

"I'm so sorry," Petyr whispered.

 

"You said you would protect me."

 

"And I will. You must believe me when I tell you that I will."

 

She spat the words. "I don't believe you anymore. I don't _need_ you anymore - you _can't_ protect me. You won't even be able to protect yourself if I tell Brienne to cut you down. And why shouldn't I?" She was angry with him for his pity, for his lack of ability to comprehend the scope of her pain, and because she knew deep down that he'd known about Ramsay all along and had chosen to sell her anyway to further his own ends.

 

Petyr shook his head. "Do you want me to beg for my life? If that's what you want, I will. Whatever you ask that is in my power, I will do."

 

Rage was a cold sensation Sansa had become intimately familiar with, and it filled her with ice now. "What if I want you to die, here and now," she said; it was a statement, not a question.

 

"Then I will die," he said.

 

Something in her still wondered _why_. "You freed me from the monsters who murdered my family and you gave me to other monsters who murdered my family." She found she was tired of looking him in the eyes. "Go back to Moat Cailin. My brother and I will take back the North on our own and I never want to see you again."

 

"I would do anything to undo what's been done to you," Petyr swore solemnly. "I know that I can't. Will you allow me to say one more thing before I go?"

 

She simply stayed silent, clenching her hands into fists.

 

"The time may come when you need an army loyal to you. I will be here." It had all the weight of a vow and yet Sansa had learned how easily those were broken. 

 

"I have an army," she retorted.

 

"Your brother's army," he agreed, ever the mockingbird, as he turned to go. " _Half_ -brother."

 

JAIME

 

It took everything in Jaime not to burst into the room and take Baelish's head himself. Or rip his guts out. Years of military training steeled him to keep his position outside the door, but nothing could prepare him for the rage and hatred and fear and bitterness coloring Sansa's voice, not to mention the content of her words.

 

He had seen many rapes in his time, had seen some even more perverse things, but what he knew of Ramsay Snow's predilections truly sent shivers down his spine. Torturers as exact and practiced as Ramsay were few and far between, thank the Gods, but they were monsters to him - not truly men, not anymore. He couldn't imagine - it was beyond the pale.

 

Jaime reached for Sansa's hand as she and Brienne emerged from the room, and Sansa reeled at his touch. "I'm sorry," he said immediately.

 

"Sorry for following me?" she said harshly, accusingly.

 

"Only for surprising you." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I saw Brienne leave last night, and heard you both wake early. I'm not sorry for following you, Sansa." He emphasized his last words, his gaze steady as he met her eyes.

 

She tore her hand from his grasp, heading for her horse, rage still etched in her every movement.

 

"My lady - " Brienne said and turned to follow her, and Jaime found himself trailing behind them both. Brienne helped Sansa mount her horse and Jaime and Brienne both mounted their own, following Sansa's cue as she turned towards the road back to Castle Black.

 

They had been riding for some time when Sansa finally spoke in a tightly controlled voice. "Ser Jaime, how well do you know Bronze Yohn?"

 

"Lord Royce?" Jaime asked, not entirely following her train of thought. "He's an honorable man. Wanted to support your brother Robb, but Lady Arryn wouldn't hear of it. Damn near led a revolt against her over it."

 

Sansa seemed to turn that over in her mind. "And if I sent an envoy asking for his help, how do you think he would answer?"

 

"I don't think your brother would like the idea of allying with Lord Baelish - " Brienne cut in tentatively.

 

"I'm not talking about Lord Baelish," Sansa said softly, and Jaime realized the brilliance of her plan. 

 

"You want to circumvent him altogether and go directly to the knights of the Vale," he concluded.

 

She spared him a small smile as they rode, barely the flicker of one, but some of the lines of weariness and anger eased from her body and his own worry was somewhat alleviated, at the least.

 

"Precisely," she agreed. "Lady Brienne, when we return, you'll want to pack. I'm sending you to Moat Cailin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about Sansa going directly to the knights of the Vale rather than through Baelish was an idea I got from Guard the Pounding Sound by Droid_girl (go read it! it's amazing!).
> 
> Playlist: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLJOYilZUbh5Ub35QVBhmk_IbvcYG1Ui4a


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